Horror Short Story Of The Week
March 6, 2010
This week we’re going to England, with horror writer George Taylor.
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George Taylor represents the new breed of horror writing that’s evolving in the UK. I’ve been calling it the UK Horror Revival Movement. Movements in writing are a lot like movements in art. Sometimes the people involved don’t really realize that they are following a trend.
It’s group-think in a way. Evolving just like a fashion trend might evolve. You see a new type of fashion that appeals not only to how you might look, but to the way you live, say from wearing tight, restrictive clothing to clothing that is loose and designed to be free-moving. It’s just so overwhelmingly superior at so many levels. Even if you’re independent-minded and usually don’t follow fashion, you can’t help but being influenced by this style of dressing. It’s just better, like moving from a canoe to a kayak.
In the horror ficion world, we’re moving away from the dim, fuzzy, psychiatrist’s couch, of depressed neurosis that seemed to be taking over. For a while, it seemed that the supernatural tale was dying. It was gradually being displaced by murky musing of unease. Self-obsessed stories by self-obsessed writers who seemed to be motivated for the most part by anti-depressants.
The 90’s were good, but the 00’s almost lost me. It got to where I couldn’t read a book of “modern” horror short stories without becoming fed up. Enough “art” already, enough psychological unease. Isn’t it time to move on with that? Those writers must live with a perpetual headache.
Screw them!
I get tired of arty nose picking. I want escape. If you want to sit in a dim room where you can be alone with your cynical, condescending, alienation, have at it. I want to go somewhere and have some fun.
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Can you believe this picture?
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Schrödinger’s Cat, by George Taylor
Miles glanced at his watch again, still trying to keep his mind on the matter at hand. Julia would just have to live with it, he told himself for the umpteenth time, just as he would. It was too late to turn back now: the experiment was well under way. In fact, it was nearly complete. Her concern for the cat’s welfare couldn’t be that great anyway, otherwise she wouldn’t have agreed to help. He didn’t expect her to get the poison, even though she’d owed him a favour. She’d probably never let him forget the risks she’d taken to get it (or forgive him if she lost her job – or if the cat died), but if necessary he’d keep reminding her that he’d taken risks too. It wasn’t easy to get the radioactive material required for the experiment…
He felt certain that deep down she was as curious as he was to find out what would actually happen. Common sense told him that the experiment would more than likely come to nothing, and could possibly lead to the untimely – and needless – death of the cat. But he had to satisfy his curiosity. Just this once. He wasn’t doing it for the fame or the glory. Publicising it would doubtless bring only outrage and notoriety. Any credit he could legitimately claim would be for the construction of the box, which wasn’t that difficult.
Perhaps calling the cat Schrödinger was in bad taste, he reflected, but he had to call it something – and Schrödinger seemed appropriate at the time.
Glancing at his watch again, he saw the hour was almost up and wondered if the radioactive sample inside the box had decayed. He thought the cat was still being very quiet, considering it had been cooped up inside there for all that time. There was little room to move around in its section of the box, to be fair, but he still expected to hear the odd shuffle or scratch or meow. Not many strays – or household pets for that matter – would be so accommodating…but Schrödinger seemed the perfect test subject. Perhaps it did trust him. He’d had it almost eating out of his hand for weeks, after all. Up to today, he’d only ever petted it, and was a bit wary about picking it up. But it was like a baby in his arms.
Part of him wanted it to live through the experiment. His heart sank a little when he admitted the signs were not good. Perhaps it was already dead. He would have taken more comfort from the knowledge that its demise would probably have been quick and painless had his head not been full of the paradoxical probabilities of Erwin Schrödinger’s thought experiment. According to that, everything inside the box was in a state of suspended animation. The radioactive material had both decayed and not decayed, the vial of poison was neither broken nor unbroken, and the cat was both dead and alive, neither alive nor dead. In a strange way, he realised, that brought its own kind of comfort. He marvelled at the fact that almost anything was possible until someone looked inside the box. What he would give to be able to see, unaided by any artificial device or intelligence, without actually looking.
Unable to wait for the results any longer, he approached the box.
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Give Freakums the sweetest kiss.
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No sooner had he opened it than Schrödinger leapt out like an unhinged jack-in-the-box. He recoiled at the sight, instinctively raising his hands to protect his face, and felt searing pain surging through his exposed arms. Screaming, he saw the cat clinging to his forearms by it claws. Its teeth were bared and its eyes blazed with fury that struck terror in his heart.
Miles screamed again as the cat bit into his right hand, drawing blood which made him see red. With gritted teeth he threw it down to the floor with all his might. It bounced off a cabinet nearby and struck the opposite workbench like a pinball, but was back on its feet in no time at all and appeared unhurt.
He staggered back towards the door, blinking away tears and sweat, and watched the cat step forward purposefully. Backing into the door, he reached round and groped for the handle. He dared not take his eyes off the cat. It had matched every step he’d taken, and was looking at him as if he were an oversized rodent.
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This is a good lesson in weird relaxing.
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Hardly had he opened the door when the cat pounced. As he turned away, he saw Schrödinger over his shoulder before he felt the biting pain of teeth and claws tearing into his flesh. He howled in agony, grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck and, gritting his teeth, wrenched it from his back and threw it across the room like a rag doll.
Schrödinger crashed into a cabinet, shaking the instruments on the workbench, but still seemed unharmed.
Miles staggered forward, too shocked and surprised to prevent the cat scrambling through the gap in the door, and grabbed the back of the stool to support himself. Perhaps it had had enough, he thought. He prayed it had. He couldn’t take much more of this. He was hurt and bleeding quite badly. Blood was pattering the floor like raindrops. He peered at his forearms. There were deep gouges in each one. Wincing, he looked over his shoulder and saw a red patch spreading over his shirt.
Then he noticed Schrödinger through the gap in the door. He flinched, expecting another attack. But none came. The cat was just sitting there, staring, its eyes seeming to glow with a peculiar light in the dimness of the lounge.
‘Hey boy,’ he said as naturally as he could, hoping the sound of his voice would stir the cat’s memory.
There wasn’t a flicker of recognition in its eyes as it stepped forward.
Miles swallowed nervously, weighing up his options, and then lunged for the door. It slammed in Schrödinger’s face.
With a heightened sense of satisfaction he turned around, slumped against the door and breathed a sigh of relief.
A noise disturbed him. He listened attentively but could hardly hear it over his pounding heart. After what seemed like a lifetime, he recognised the sound. Scratching. For a mad moment he thought it was coming from the box, but the logical part of his brain told him it couldn’t be. He dismissed the idea, the insanity of it lingering in his mind as he tried to concentrate on the sound.
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This is a scarred veteran of the streets. His eyes and ears are surrounded by scar tissue from all of his past conflicts.
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Miles soon realised it was coming from the other side of the door. He pictured Schrödinger ripping out slivers of wood, and shook his head in dismay. Any other cat would have quit already – but not Schrödinger. Schrödinger appeared to have no intention of stopping until…until…. He shook his head again, scarcely able to believe what he was thinking. How could such a seemingly docile animal have become so murderous in such a short space of time? Something must have happened to it inside the box. Yes. It must have been quietly going crazy in there. Something akin to cabin fever, perhaps. Or perhaps its derangement was a form of radiation sickness. Perhaps it was due to a combination of both. Whatever the reason, one thing was clear: as outlandish as it seemed, it wanted him dead.
He’d have to kill it before it killed him, he thought in a moment of cold and savage reasoning. But how? He couldn’t use his hands, much as he’d like to. It would tear them to shreds before they became effective weapons. How about his feet? He could kick it to death, trample it under foot until it resembled road kill. Yes. He liked the sound of that. But he’d have to catch it first, corner it, and that wouldn’t be an easy thing to do.
He had an idea. It was very simple. He’d stand with his back to the wall beside the door, open it, and wait for the cat to come in. Then he’d slam the door and Schrödinger would be at his mercy. The plan was foolproof. But he’d need something with which to defend himself if things didn’t go as planned; something to use as a weapon if necessary. He scanned the room for something suitable but saw nothing he could use.
Desperation forced him to consider using one of his shoes until he focused on the stool. That would do nicely, he thought. It seemed a bit excessive for a domestic cat – even for one as deranged as Schrödinger – but it was convenient and practical.
Wiping his bloody and sweaty palms on his jeans, he realised the cat had stopped scratching at the door. He breathed as quietly as he could, turned his head to one side, and put his ear against the smooth wood. There was no sound of movement. Was the cat still there? He imagined it was, waiting for him to open the door, and decided the time had come to give it what it wanted.
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By a kind of instinct, Miles began making his intention acceptable to himself by laughing at it. The thought of using the stool as a shield against a domestic cat, as if it were a circus lion, was absurd – even comical – and he smiled.
He staggered over to the stool, with the smile dying on his lips, and picked it up. It was heavier than he remembered, but all the better for bashing in Schrödinger’s head…
Swallowing uneasily, he stood to the left of the door as planned, put his back against the wall, and took a deep breath. He assumed the position he’d take if Schrödinger tried to attack him again, shielding himself with the stool, and smiled once more. But there was no humour in it.
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This is an actual one-eyed cat.
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It was just a cat, he told himself, not a lion, a domestic cat – a deranged one, certainly, but a cat none the less. With this in mind he reached for the door handle, opened it, and raised the stool in readiness.
There was no sign of the cat.
Miles waited, certain it would make an appearance.
But it didn’t.
Growing impatient, he craned his neck round the door frame and peered into the lounge. The cat was nowhere to be seen. It had to be hiding somewhere, he thought, somewhere in the lounge. The doors to the kitchen and the hall were closed. Was it hiding from him? Had he misinterpreted the situation? Perhaps it had had enough. Perhaps he should just leave while he could and let the RSPCA deal with it. A couple of inspectors would have a much better chance of catching it than he would. They were trained for this sort of thing, after all. He’d just tell them that the cat had been hanging around for days, and that this morning it had got in through the kitchen window, and that, while he was trying to see it off, it had turned on him for no apparent reason, and had run amok through the house. After seeing his injuries, they’d have no reason to doubt his story. He couldn’t tell them the truth; if he did, they’d probably think he was mad, not to mention a menace to cats. He could see the headlines now: “CURIOSITY (ALMOST) KILLED THE PHYSICIST”. He’d be ridiculed as well as reviled…
Miles shook off the shame and indignation this scenario induced, trying to recall where he’d put his mobile phone, and peered into the lounge again. He wished the cat would do something – anything – to betray its whereabouts. But it was staying put.
Cursing its mangy hide, he entered the lounge, stayed close to the bookshelf along the nearside wall so that he could keep an eye on the rest of the room. He reached the door to the hall, and was about to open it when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. A black spot that suddenly grew in size as it rapidly descended on him. He couldn’t turn around in time to see what it was, but he realised soon enough after a piercing pain spread across his shoulder-blades like wild fire. Shrieking, he crashed back into the end of the bookshelf in a desperate attempt to crush the creature clinging to his back. The bookshelf shuddered with the impact but the books held fast.
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Through a haze of pain he saw the cat scamper round him. Yet again it appeared to have escaped serious injury. He watched it in stunned disbelief, wondering what he had to do to stop the thing.
It was sitting on its haunches now, as though ready to spring.
Miles backed away, deciding all over again that he’d have to kill it, and raised the stool like a club.
Undaunted, the cat took a step forward, it eyes blazing with a hard and purposeful delight.
‘Come on then,’ Miles said as he backed into the utility room. He’d trap it here, he decided once and for all, trap it and bludgeon it to death.
Schrödinger paused in the doorway, looking at him suspiciously, almost as if it had read his thoughts.
Miles met the cat’s gaze as evenly as he could. ‘Don’t be shy now you little shit,’ he muttered through gritted teeth.
The cat remained motionless, its slitted eyes fixed on him.
‘COME ON THEN. I’M RIGHT HERE.’
He stood his ground.
‘WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?’
The cat cocked its head, seeming to contemplate the question.
Miles put the stool down beside him, hoping the gesture would encourage the cat to strike.
His eyes lit up as Schrödinger stepped across the threshold.
‘That’s it,’ he murmured, his pulse quickening. ‘Come on.’
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He felt naked without the stool, and thought about making a quick exit via the window even though he knew he’d struggle to fit through it. Schrödinger would be on his back before he even got it open anyway. He had to stand firm, he told himself, and wait for the cat to make its move.
He didn’t have long to wait.
The cat made its move in a single bound.
Miles matched the leap with a bound that carried him out of Schrödinger’s path. He lurched a few steps to the door and slammed it shut. All thoughts of escape had been forgotten. He was consumed with a desire to destroy the creature and put an end to this nightmare.
He spun around, confronting the cat, and realised he’d have to go through it to get to the stool. Sod the stool. He’d kill the cat with his bare hands if he had to. Seeing it poised to strike again, he lunged forward with the intention of kicking the beast as it came for him; but he slipped on the fresher spatters of blood on the linoleum, fell backwards, and banged the back of his head on the door.
Before he knew who or where he was, the cat was clawing at his face. Sharp slivers of pain wrenched him from his daze. He screamed in agony and terror as his vision turned red.
Lashing out blindly, he grabbed the cat and, ignoring its frenzied bites and scratches, drew it close to his chest.
It felt cold in his arms, and almost as stiff as a dead lab rat. Stifling his shock and horror, he squeezed it with all his remaining strength. He squeezed until it had stopped squirming in his grasp – until he was sure he’d squeezed the life out of the thing.
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No cat was harmed or mistreated in this picture. It’s actually of a vet giving medicine to a kitten.
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Exhausted, Miles loosened his grip on the beast and, blinking away the blood and tears from his burning eyes, wondered if he would ever see the light of day again.
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Julia hoped the cat wasn’t dead. If it was, she’d be partly responsible for its death. She’d supplied the poison, after all. She’d been feeling guilty ever since she’d stolen the stuff (knowing full well what it was for and what it could do to that poor cat), and was still worried about being found out. She’d said as much several times, but Miles didn’t seem to care. All he seemed to care about was a silly experiment – an experiment that was never meant to be carried out for real.
Opening the front door, she noticed junk mail on the mat and wondered if Miles was out. She stooped to pick up the leaflets and the menus, stepped into the hall and turned to shut the door.
She hoped Miles had gone out. It would give her time to determine whether or not the experiment had been a success. She hoped, for the cat’s sake and for her peace of mind, it had failed.
She opened the door to the lounge. The crimson stains on the end of the bookshelf instantly caught her attention. She froze, staring at the marks, wanting to believe they’d come from a ketchup bottle or a tin of red paint. But she couldn’t. She’d seen enough samples of blood to know the difference between it and sauce or paint. The question was whose blood was it.
‘Miles,’ Julia called anxiously, wondering what had happened, and entered the lounge.
There was more blood on the floor. Maybe Miles had had an accident, she thought, and was at the hospital. That would explain his apparent absence and the blood. But why hadn’t he phoned? The blood looked as if it had been there for a while.
Julia felt her stomach tightening as she approached the door to the utility room. She didn’t want to open it now. She wanted to do what she usually did on a Monday evening, and pretend nothing was wrong.
She told herself to stop being silly, and suspected Miles had probably had a few stitches for a cut and was on his way home from the hospital. She remembered how clumsy he could be.
‘Miles,’ she said to be sure, not expecting to get a reply.
She opened the door and noticed more blood on the floor. Quite a bit of it this time. The air was thick with the smell of it.
Realising Miles’ cut must have been serious than she’d imagined, she scanned the workbench for anything sharp which he could have been using – but her eyes kept coming back to the box. It was open.
Was the cat still in there? she wondered.
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Needing to know, she approached the workbench. Two feet came into view on the other side – two human feet – and she almost jumped out of her skin. They were wearing Miles’ scuffed shoes.
Julia scurried around the workbench, stood aghast, and tried to take in what she was seeing. Miles was lying in a pool of blood. Streaks of it stained his ashen face like crimson tears. She couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed. Clods of gore caked each socket.
She realised why there was so much blood when she saw the gashes in his throat, and put her hand to her gaping mouth in shocked disgust as the full horror of the scene began to sink in.
She knew he was dead. The faint but unmistakable odour of decay was already supplanting the smell of blood. The wounds on his arms, face, and neck indicated an animal attack – but surely the cat wasn’t responsible for his death…
She noticed small, bloody footprints – unmistakably feline – leading away from the crimson pool surrounding Miles’ corpse. She followed them with her eyes and saw they came to an end at the far wall. The window had a hole the size of a man’s fist in one of the bottom panes.
Walking back around the workbench to avoid the majority of the blood, she cautiously approached the window, keeping an eye out for the cat despite what she was thinking about it.
At the window, she saw a few strands of black hair caught on some of the remaining shards of glass, and knew the cat was somewhere out there, in the dark.
Julia still couldn’t believe it was responsible for all this, but unless a mad dog or a maniac. A maniac! The possibility of one lurking somewhere in the house, waiting to pounce, became all too apparent, and rooted her to the spot. Trying to control the panic welling up inside her, she reached into her bag for her mobile phone.
A sound suddenly penetrated her consciousness. She almost dropped the phone as she acknowledged the noise. Whirling around, she was relieved to see nobody but Miles in the room with her.
Her heart was beating so loudly that she could hardly hear the noise. But it was there.
She strained to listen, trying to determine what it was.
To her disbelief, it seemed to be coming from the box.
© George Taylor 2010
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To read former Horror Short Stories Of The Week, go here:
http://ghastlydoor.com/horror-story-archive/
http://ghastlydoor.com/horror-story-archives-ii/
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